I saw the 55 Plus French toast
and the 55 Plus potato pancakes
on the menu at a chain diner.
It made me want to call my grandparents.
Grandkids far away.
Son doesn’t visit.
TV dinners for two if you’re lucky
one if you’re not.
I don’t know what’s more tragic:
the 55+ pot roast portion,
or the full family size,
made at home and left
to go bad in the fridge.
It must be like eating dinner
in a furniture showroom.
It looks like the real thing at least.
No kids to make a mess.
No husband to scold.
He’s calmed down now
the tenacity and noise
turned to AM radio ads.
I don’t believe in suicide,
but after seeing the 55+ menu,
I think at a certain age,
perhaps making certain risky decisions
might not be so bad.
— Wallace Mack is an author and poet writing from the memory swamps. You can find more of his work on Amazon.